Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

on his mind… That can’t be, they said doubtfully. When Lan Jiefang came to, he rolled around on the kang like a young donkey. His wails sounded like the boar imitating an air-raid alarm. He pounded his chest, pulled his hair, clawed at his eyes, and scratched his cheeks… Some kind-hearted people had no choice but to tie his arms to keep him from doing serious injury to himself.

I couldn’t wait to tell people all about the celestial beauty of the sun and the moon, as they vied to outshine each other, but was stopped from doing so by Lan Jiefang, who, having lost his mind, threw the pig farm into sheer chaos. Party Secretary Hong, who had just gotten out of a sickbed, came as soon as he heard. He walked with a cane, his pallor, sunken eyes, and chin stubble showing the effects of an illness serious enough to turn a hard-as- nails member of the Communist Party into an old man. He stood at the head of the kang and banged on the floor with his cane, as if hoping to strike water. The harsh light made him look even more sickly and turned the face of Lan Jiefang, who was lying on the kang wailing, piteously hideous.

“Where’s Jinlong?” Hong asked, the tone showing his frustration.

The people in the room exchanged glances, apparently unaware of what had happened to him. Finally it was left to Mo Yan to answer timorously:

“Probably in the generator room.”

The comment reminded everyone that this was the first time they’d had electricity since the generator had been shut down the previous winter, and they were puzzled over what Jinlong was up to.

“Go get him.”

Mo Yan slipped out of the room like a slippery mouse.

At about that time I heard the sad sounds of a woman crying out on the street. My heart nearly stopped, and my brain froze. What happened next came like a raging torrent. I squatted down in front of a tall pile of apricot leaves, roots, and branches in the feed preparation room to think about the past, veiled in mist, and examine the present. Bones of the Mount Yimeng pigs that had died the year before had been placed in large baskets outside the room, where they showed up white in the moonlight, with specks of green glittering here and there. They gave off an unpleasant odor. I gazed out to see what appeared to be a dancing figure walking toward the moon, which by now looked like a ball of quicksilver, and turn on to the path to the Apricot Garden Pig Farm. She looked up, and I saw her face, which looked like a used water ladle, a sort of burnished yellow; owing to the fact that she was wailing, her open mouth was like a black mouse hole. She held her arms close to her chest, her legs were so bowed a dog could have run between them, and her feet pointed outward as she walked. The range of her rocking from side to side appeared almost greater than her movement forward. That’s how bad she looked as she “ran” along. She had changed drastically since my days as an ox, but I knew who she was as soon as I laid eyes on her. I tried to recall how old Yingchun would be, but my pig consciousness overwhelmed my human consciousness, and as they merged they created mixed feelings: excitement and sorrow.

“Oh, my son, what’s happened?” By looking through the gaps in the window, I saw her throw herself on the kang, weeping as she nudged Lan Jiefang.

The way his upper body was trussed up, he could hardly move, so he kept kicking the wall, which, not all that sturdy to begin with, seemed in danger of coming down; gray peelings like noodle dough floated to the ground. Chaos reigned in the room, until Hong Taiyue commanded:

“Get a rope and tie his legs!”

An old man named Lu Biantou, who also worked on the pig farm, dragged a length of rope up and climbed clumsily onto the kang. Lan Jiefang’s legs were kicking out like the hooves of a wild horse, making it impossible for Lu to get the job done.

“I said tie them!” Hong bellowed.

So Lu pressed Jiefang’s legs down with his body, but Yingchun immediately began tearing at his clothes and wailing, Let go of my son- Get up there, somebody, and help him! Hong shouted. You sons of bitches! Jiefang cried out. You’re a bunch of pig sons of bitches- Pass the rope underneath! The third son of the Sun family burst into the room. Get up on that kang and give him a hand! The rope was wrapped around Jiefang’s legs, but also around Lu Biantou’s arms, and then tightened. Loosen the rope, and let me get my arms back! Jiefang kicked the rope loose; it twisted like a crazed snake. Ow, Mother… Lu Biantou reeled backward and banged into Hong on his way to the floor. The Sun boy, with the strength of youth, sat down on Jiefang’s belly and, ignoring Yingchun’s clawing and cursing, quickly tightened the rope and eliminated the possibility of Jiefang mounting any resistance. On the floor, Lu Biantou was holding his nose, dark blood oozing out between his fingers.

Son, I know you don’t want to acknowledge any of this, but every word of what I’ve said is the unvarnished truth. When people are driven nearly mad, they are imbued with superhuman strength and are capable of almost supernatural deeds. That old apricot tree still has several egg-sized scars from injuries it sustained when you banged your head against it in a fit of rage. Under normal conditions, in any battle between a tree and a human head, the tree will win. But when they go a bit crazy, people’s heads get harder. So when your head and the tree met, it wobbled and sent snowflakes fluttering to the ground. You, meanwhile, recoiled backward and landed on your backside. A knot swelled up on your forehead, but the poor tree lost a chunk of bark, exposing the whiteness underneath.

Bound hand and foot, you writhed and twisted in a mighty attempt to get free. So Baofeng gave you a sedative and you slowly relaxed, your eyes open but unfocused, sounds of sleep leaving your mouth and nose. The tension in the room dissolved. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, Lan Jiefang, you’re not my son, so whether you lived or died, whether you were crazy or just stupid, should have meant nothing to me. But I really did, I breathed a sigh of relief. After all, I concluded, you’d emerged from Yingchun’s womb, and in a previous life, that womb had been my – that is, Ximen Nao’s – property. The one I should have been concerned about was Ximen Jinlong, who was my son. With this thought in my head, I rushed over to the generator room, light blue moonlight on my shoulders. Apricot petals drifted to the ground like moonbeams. The whole grove of apricot trees trembled from the frenzied roar of the diesel motor. I heard the revitalized Yimeng pigs: some were talking in their sleep, others were whispering back and forth.

In the blindingly bright light of the naked two-hundred-watt bulb that lit up the generator I saw Ximen Jinlong on the brick floor, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, his feet pointing upward, drops of oil from the generator spraying onto his toenails and the backs of his feet, looking like sticky dog’s blood. His shirt was open to expose a purple vest. His hair was uncombed, his eyes bloodshot, like a madman, yet sort of cool. He probably wanted to drink himself to death, because I saw an empty liquor bottle lying next to his leg and a half- empty bottle in his hand… and if the youngster didn’t drink himself to death he’d surely drink himself stupid.

Mo Yan was standing beside him, squinting. “You’ve had enough, brother Jinlong,” he said. “Secretary Hong is waiting to give you hell.”

“Secretary Hong?” Jinlong looked up out of the corner of his eye. “Secretary Hong’s a prick! I’ll give him hell!”

“Brother,” Mo Yan said wickedly, “Jiefang saw what you and Huzhu were doing up in the apricot tree and went nuts. A dozen strong young men tried but failed to restrain him. He actually bit through a thick steel rod. You should go see him. After all, he’s your blood brother.”

“My blood brother? Who are you talking about? You’re the one who’s his blood brother!”

“Whether you go see him or not is your business, Jinlong,” Mo Yan said. “I’ve done my job by telling you.”

But Mo Yan seemed in no hurry to leave. He kicked the bottle on the ground, then bent down and picked it up. He squinted and looked inside; seeing some green contents, he tipped his head back and drained it, then licked his lips noisily. “Good stuff,” he said, “worthy of its name.”

Jinlong raised the bottle in his hand and drank deeply. The room filled with the aroma of strong liquor as he flung the bottle at Mo Yan, who raised his bottle. When bottle met bottle, shards of exploding glass rained down to the ground. Now the aroma was stronger than ever. “Get lost!” Jinlong bellowed. “Get the hell out of here!” As Mo Yan backed up, Jinlong picked up a shoe, a screwdriver, and some other stuff, and threw them at him, one after the other. “You goddamn spy, you little prick, get out of my sight!” “You’re crazy!” Mo Yan muttered as he dodged the missiles. “You’ve gone nuts before he even comes out of it!”

Jinlong stood up shakily and wobbled back and forth, like one of those tip-over dolls. The moment Mo Yan stepped out the door, the moonlight lit up his shaved head and turned it into a honeydew melon. I was watching the two weirdoes from my hiding place behind the tree, worried sick that Jinlong might fall onto the generator belt and be crushed. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Instead, he stepped over it, then stepped back. “Crazy!” he screamed.